It hurts knowing you could call me but you wouldn’t.
So, I sit on the edge of the bed, listen to the songs I played five years ago and drink black tea.
There is a fire inside of me, a raging fire that cannot be quenched by this tea, heaven knows I’ve had three cups already.
I would never admit it, no, we are raised better than that, I am your storm, the wind that knocked the breath out of you, the little hurricane that did not offer a storm warning, the witch from your ancestral land-oh, the one whom you never know where you stand…so you dance around the broken eggshells, cracking up a world unknown to us…
Oh, how sweet you are you wretched soul!
Now, listen…this is my fourth cup of tea and it still hurts knowing that you are somewhere…just somewhere in a world free from my presence…a silence that would fill you up when your guys ask “so where is she?”
You would knock your drink in one gulp, clear your throat, shrug your left shoulder and say “ah, si you know her…she is probably reading or something, she’s different.”
The ones who know you would nod and keep their raging thoughts to themselves.
The ones who envy you will send me a text.
The ones who wish they were you would call and for the love of everything that’s sweet and sour, I know it will be Him.
He will get up, say he’s going to take a piss, or he’s going to get something from the car and then he will walk five feet away from everyone and every little sound that might hide the beating of his heart and he’d scroll through my number on his contact list and call…He would wait, shaking his right leg, humming a tune or simply holding his breath until I pick up and he’d start “Hello…”